Taking a chance
by Claire Bloom
Summary: A stripper-gram, the wrong address and a secret crush seems like a recipe for disaster, but a chance taken on romance, makes the risk worthwhile. A/N E/C Written for FAGE 2 for Glee68


**Ficawesome Gift Echange- TAKE 2**

**Title: Taking a chance**

**Written for: Glee68 aka Debra Lee**

**Written By: Claire Bloom**

**Rating: M for language**

**Summary/Prompt used:**Stripper-gram goes to the wrong address...

**If you would like to see all the stories that are a part of this exchange visit the facebook group: ** **Fanficaholics Anon: Where Obsession Never Sleeps**

I sat and in my car and watched, in horror, as my secret crush entered the building. I couldn't believe he lived here. I looked down at my costume, and swore under my breath.

"Bollocks." Of all the damn, bad luck.

I looked at my appointment card again, checking the name and apartment number, verifying he was not my next customer. He wasn't. At least that was something. I contemplated leaving, and giving my boss an excuse, saying they weren't home or something, but then I reconsidered the money lost; no job performed equalled zero payment. I needed that money.

Heaving a deep sigh, I opened the door and got out. Walking tentatively over to the apartment block, I cursed again as my heel caught on the pavement, causing my ankle to give slightly. I looked around quickly and was mortified to see a couple watching me, open mouthed, as I walked and then stumbled in the road. I couldn't blame them, I looked a sight. Think Rocky Horror meets Little BoPeep, and you may have a clue as to how I was dressed. The people who used the company I worked for either had strange taste or a good sense of humour.

"Evenin," I called out to them, blushed scarlet, and then hurried over to the doors.

I ran my finger over the name plate and paused when I spotted my secret crush. He lived next door to my job. "Bollocks." I muttered again, resting my head against the wall, causing my wig to shift back from my forehead.

I reconsidered my earlier plan of running, but the generous payment called out to me and I knew I would regret leaving a much needed wage behind just because of my pride. I had done this job a thousand times already, what difference should it make if someone I liked lived within hearing distance? He barely noticed me anyway, and with a wig, makeup, and a bustier corset on, chances were he could trip over me at my day job in the morning, and still not know who the heck I was.

I squared my shoulders, adjusted my boobs, and fixed my wig. I gripped the door handle and walked quickly inside before I could chicken out again.

I headed for the elevator, the clack-clacking of my heels beating out a staccato rhythm on the marble lobby floor, making it sound so frigging loud. I cringed and longed for the tackiness of carpet usually found in the lobbies of my lower class, and lesser paid jobs.

I pressed for the elevator and waited, alone, in the lobby. The ping sounded and the doors slid open, allowing me entry. The interior was plush, and accommodated a carpet. I glanced away from my reflection in the mirrored wall and faced the doors, pressing for the floor I needed and hoping no one would join me. To my joy, the doors began to close, but dismay replaced that happy feeling milliseconds later, when a hand reached out and stopped them. I watched with horror as four young men stepped inside, and around me, choosing to stand at the back of me, no doubt so they could ogle my barely concealed buttocks and shapely thighs which were on show in fishnet stockings.

I had never felt more exposed. I realised the irony of my thoughts because I, in fact, stripped, so I could earn extra cash. But when you're gyrating to a beat and you choose to make them watch, it's a better feeling than simply being on show. There were times when I hated what I did for that money, but I was incredibly good at my job, and had the most personal requests, which my boss loved, and cashed in on. I ignored their chuckles, and waited as the elevator took a lifetime to climb ten floors. In my haste to get out of there, I stumbled through the doors as they opened, and landed, arse up and face down, in the corridor.

"Way Hey!" Went up a chorus of cheers and wolf whistles as I pushed myself off the ground and tried to adjust whatever small amount of dignity I had left. "Jesus!" someone else guffawed. "I thought I just saw last year's Christmas dinner!"

I hurried away from the elevator and dashed round a corner, pressing myself against a wall and praying for a meteor to hit the floor where I stood and obliterate me. I struggled to catch my breath, and for the twentieth time that night, I considered just going home. What was the point to this humiliation? A couple of hundred dollars; was it really worth it?

I knew, in reality, the job would only last approximately fifteen minutes, and then I could leave, go home, and take a long, hot bubble bath with Buble drowning out my cries.

My palms felt clammy and my face flushed. I needed a moment longer before I located the correct address and proceeded to make this disaster of a night end as quickly as possible. It wasn't usually this bad, like I said, I chose to do this and I occasionally enjoyed it. But now, because I knew he was here, too, it suddenly seemed seedy and wrong for me to be wandering his hallway dressed like this. I thought of my crush, and how close by he was. He lived in this building, on the very floor I was hiding on, mere metres away from me, and if I was a different person, a person with more self belief and confidence, I would walk up to his door and show him exactly what he was missing out on. I remembered seeing him, only that very morning, as he wandered round the shelves. I worked at the local library which was where I had first laid eyes on him. It was there, and only there, that I ever saw him, until tonight.

I recalled the way he had looked today, light grey suit and turquoise tie, his hair combed back from chiseled features. His eyes were blue; I had seen them close up once, as he asked me for the location of a book. He had barely glanced at me, reading his notebook rather than making eye contact, but he had raised his gaze, just once, and I filed away the sight of his face at such close proximity for future fantasies. His lips were made for kissing, in my opinion. Full and red, because he licked them a lot; it made me want to lick them, too.

I sighed, and rested my head back against the wall. The minutes were ticking by, and I had a job to do. I picked up my bag from where I had dropped it, by my feet, and proceeded to walk the length of the hallway, looking for the address I needed. I stopped outside the door, noticing my secret crush lived in the one opposite. His apartment number was just one more thing about him I would commit to memory.

For a moment, I thought about knocking on his door, rather than my real job. I considered his face as he opened up and saw me standing there, dressed like a sadistic yet horny, sheep herder, with a twinkle in my eyes.

I wondered if he would allow me entry into his home, and let me perform for him. I secretly wished he would enjoy me. Before I could acknowledge my desperation, I took a step towards his door and raised my hand. I was going to knock.

I really was going to knock on his door and actively seek out further depravity that this evening had already bore witness to. I was a glutton for punishment, and dressed like a Dom, but did that really mean I should act like one? My hand wavered and I lowered it slightly, convincing myself I was a fool for thinking this would give me a chance with him, when the door flew open and I was face to face with my hearts deepest desire.

He stopped midstride, and gawped at me. I certainly was a sight. Slowly, he lowered his hand, and closed his full, beautiful lips, turning the corners up into a semblance of a smile. That small snippet of the positive spurred me on.

I dropped a hip, arched my back, and turned my head slightly, attempting to purr in my sexiest voice, "Carlisle Cullen?" I pretended his was the name on my appointment card. He nodded, gulped, and looked me up and down. I checked him out, too. His tie was gone and the top button of his shirt open, affording me a glimpse of his chest, so smooth and golden brown. He made my mouth water.

I had to carry on. I had already acknowledged him as if he were my customer. I couldn't apologise and move along to the correct door now. My humiliation had to continue, and I couldn't let it show.

"I have a surprise for you," I whispered, and winked. Looking down at the floor, I realised, with deep despair, I had forgotten my tape recorder, music included. I would have to improvise. I would have to sing this one myself. I wanted to cry.

"Well, this is a treat." My head shot up at the sound of his voice, and his words. My eyes connected with his, deep blue meets dark green, and I gulped. I actually gulped. I watched in fascination as he leaned against the doorjamb, and crossed his arms, waiting for me to make my move.

I wanted to kiss him.

"It isn't even my birthday," he told me.

I had to stop him from talking. He was bound to uncover the truth and learn I was knocking at the wrong door. I had this one chance to make him see me, and I was going to take it.

"Shhh," I whispered, leaning closer and pressing my perfectly manicured nail against those lips. Oh, those lips which had haunted my dreams and now teased me with their softness beneath my skin. I felt my body react to him, and _I_ knew that he knew. His pupils grew wide, taking over from the blue, turning the iris black. Was it my imagination or did he just glance at _my_ lips? I swallowed again and removed my finger, and without thought, I carried it to my own mouth where I continued to drag it across my lower lip, and lick the tip with my tongue, as if I could actually taste him there. His face flushed, and I took that as a good sign.

I stepped back and started to sing 'I wanna be loved by you' in my best Marilyn Monroe voice, which wasn't very good at all. I swayed my hips, turning my back to him so he could see my arse. I ran my hands up my thighs and spun quickly on my heel, with the aim of being seductive, but caught my right heel on my left toe, and stumbled, falling against the door frame, and quickly, in the blink of an eye, started to stroke the wood as if that was my intention all along. I pressed my face to it, and arched my back, so my buttocks stuck out, giving my hips a wiggle. I reached around for the clasp on my corset, and broke a nail. Ignoring that, I decided I should start with my stockings instead, and bent to reach down, but as I moved back, I discovered my wig had snagged on a nail not fully hammered in. I thought quick release would do the trick, rather than coyly trying to dislodge it, so I swung my head back, but the wig remained by the wall, and I was exposed.

I stopped singing mid 'boo boo be doop' and raised my hands to my head.

With the wig, the costume, and the make-up, I could at least pretend to be someone else, with the hope he would never recognise me, but no wig gave my face no frame. If he didn't know me now, he certainly would when he next went to the library. I stared at him, horrified, and wanted to flee, but found my feet had become glued to the floor by my exposure. To my complete surprise, he pushed his hands into his pockets and smiled. I expected swearing, or mockery, or worse yet, that recognition I half feared and half wanted, but he simply relaxed his stance and smiled.

"Definitely a treat," he murmured.

I lowered my hands and returned his smile. He wasn't mad. I may even stand a chance here. I looked down at the floor and was about to speak when I heard a voice behind him, calling from the confines of the apartment.

"Sweetheart, who's at the door?"

The voice was soft and very feminine, and I was screwed. As he turned to answer, I grabbed my wig, threw off my heels, and ran for the fire escape. I shoved the door hard, and raced down the stairs, aware that Carlisle was in pursuit. I wondered why, and prayed he would give up and leave me alone with my humiliation. What was I thinking, purposely going to the wrong address? Did I seriously think he would suddenly fall madly in love with the stripper, and we would live happily ever after?

"Wait!" he called out above me, but there was no way I was facing him again, dressed like this and feeling so ashamed. I should have shown him the 'real' me whilst at work. The clever, funny and adorable me, not the cross-dresser stripper-gram!

I continued to hurtle down the stairs, as if the hounds of hell were on my tail, but stockings on non-carpeted stairwells created a slip zone, and I was careless. I crashed into the wall, and felt my nose explode, but rather than fall to my knees and howl like a baby, I covered my face and continued to run. If he caught me, he may well report me to my boss and I would not only lose the money from this gig, but probably my job, too. I had never fucked up so badly before, not when I stripped, that's when I got it right. I could dance, I had a great body, and the audience loved my act. I couldn't fathom what had possessed me to take such a chance and knock at the wrong address. I would forever remember this night, and not in a good way.

I finally reached the last step and the back door out of this hell hole, but just as I thought freedom was within breathing distance, I felt his hand grip my arm and stop me. "Wait," he panted, letting go, trusting I wouldn't run again. I was just as breathless as he, and bleeding, and basically exhausted from this night, so I stayed. I gave up on the flight desire, and decided maybe fight was the next option. I noticed he carried my shoes in his hand. The gesture was both so sweet and bizarre to me. "I need to know your name." He gasped, struggling to speak and breathe at the same time.

"Excuse me?" Carlisle Cullen had surprised me so many times tonight.

"I've seen you before, at the library. I was too shy to ask, but tonight, when you started to strip for me, I thought 'what the hell'?" he smiled again, shrugging his shoulders as if this whole mess could be passed off with blasé.

"You knew it was me?" I asked, feeling horrified and stupid at the same time.

Carlisle nodded. "From your eyes," I stared at him, confounded, and felt blood soak my upper lip. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to me. I dabbed and winched. "So?" he continued, "your name, and then maybe – coffee?" I looked up the stairwell, the way we had just come, as if indicating without speech that I was asking about his visitor. "My sister," he laughed.

I gulped, tasting blood, and decided it was fate who had led me to this building and made me choose his rather than the right door. I had taken a chance tonight, and despite the catastrophe it had become, the ending was looking better by the second. "Esme," I told him. "My name stripper name is Esme, but you can call me Edward."

Carlisle threw his head back and laughed. "Well, Esme is pretty," he chuckled, "but Edward is more my type!"


End file.
